


Same Old Lie

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Dystopia, Face-Fucking, Light BDSM, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave!Blaine/master!Kurt.  AU in which slavery is a societal norm and Blaine is assigned to Kurt as a domestic/sexual service slave.</p><p>Warnings for: thematic but not character driven dub!con, slavery, D/S and BDSM elements, facefucking (resulting in brief breath restriction), and some rougher than usual sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Old Lie

It doesn't begin on a dark and stormy night. He doesn't have to visit a slave market ripe with abused flesh on display. It isn't a dramatic scene where a father sits his son down and tells him that it's time, that he must.

It's a reminder postcard in the mail from the federal government telling him to fill out the attached paperwork and return it within sixty days or he will face a hefty fine. It's no more flamboyant than the postcard he gets every six months from his dentist reminding him that he's due for a cleaning.

He's been without a slave for three months and, as any over eighteen year old of his particular financial standing knows, he can only get away with not using, housing, and supporting one for so long. It's their world; it's always been this way. If you make above a certain pay grade and have the living space, you are expected to shoulder the burden of a slave and, in exchange, you receive their domestic and sexual services.

He sighs, and puts it off, and only when it's the last thing in his "emergency: do not ignore" mail pile he opens the attached envelope, an indulgent post-dinner cookie clutched between his teeth, and scans the brief three-page form.

Nothing much has changed since the last time, except for one very important detail: he now has the option of specifically requesting the sexual orientation of his slave.

And god, if that isn't a relief. His last two slaves had been sweet, easy-going youths who had been perfectly behaved but also completely uninterested in what Kurt had between his legs, and though he has always been satisfied with the simplest forms of sexual gratification (perfunctory handjobs were more or less all he'd ever asked of them), it's difficult to enjoy oneself when the person on the other end doesn't have the ability to appreciate the mechanics and parts involved.

Lord knows he'd skip over that part entirely if it weren't a requirement of the contract. Each time it had been the reason why he'd not renewed the slaves' contracts after the minimum six months had been completed--he'd hoped that those boys would find friendly similarly aligned mistresses who could put some interest back into their fairly dull lives.

He checks off the appropriate boxes and puts the form in the mail the next day.

His administrative assistant, a young man named Howard who is barely four years his junior, tilts his head as he hands Kurt his morning coffee in the mail room.

"That time again?" he asks, seeing the logo on the envelope.

Kurt sighs. "Yeah. They got me." He smiles. It's not really a big deal and, in fact, he can't complain; he's had remarkable luck so far with the program. He has no horror stories of getting a slave who has been abused or violent or depressed or maimed to share.

"Well, let me know if he's cute," Howard says with a wink, and Kurt just rolls his eyes. He doesn't look at his slaves that way, not really, and the way that people joke about the arrangement has always made him uncomfortable.

 

*

 

He has his assignment consultation on a Thursday afternoon--rolling his eyes the whole time at the eleven AM to three PM time slot (the woman shows up at three-fifteen)--and thankfully, it doesn't take long. He's flawless on paper (solid lineage, solid employment, solid slave record) knows how to impress even farther in person, and his previous slaves who have moved on to new masters have had good things to say about him.

He isn't quite sure what they hope to get out of him that's different from last time, and it's not as if he gets a choice--they handle the assignment of the slave with no say of his. But it's as clinical as a physical and by the end of it the woman smiles and shakes his hand and he gets the rest of the afternoon off, so it's not a total loss.

He gets the information about his new slave two weeks later. It's the busiest time of the month at work so he doesn't get a chance to read it until that weekend. After breakfast, a rigorous skin care routine, and two cups of tea he settles in his office with the file.

Blaine Anderson, twenty-two, five feet eight inches, one hundred and sixty pounds, black hair, hazel eyes, flawless domestic service record. Has had three masters, the last having owned him the longest at four years, contract terminated only because the man had died of old age. Homosexual. Well-behaved, openly submissive, decent singing voice.

Kurt feels a flicker of anticipation, which he tamps down on immediately. It's one thing to appreciate an experienced domestic slave, but quite another to get too excited about one. He embraces cautious optimism instead, eyes flickering over the rest of Blaine's history; it's neither lacking nor overflowing with detail. It states the part of the nation he's from, the age at which he'd been taken into the distribution program (sixteen, fairly universal), his genetic heritage, his master history, and on and on, nothing that really tells Kurt anything about his personality. So many numbers and names and dates and so little story.

Blaine is set to be delivered two weeks from the mailing date of the letter.

 

*

 

Like all slave-adapted residences, Kurt's apartment has a small bedroom and attached bathroom set aside for slave use. This is more for the master's comfort than the slave's, as slaves are preferred to be unseen and unheard most of the time, and one can't have a slave underfoot at night or when the slave needs to wash or use the facilities.

He makes sure that these rooms are aired, clean, and freshly stocked. When the time draws near he buys a separate set of groceries for the slave's consumption, stocking the labeled cabinet in the kitchen. He's had a domestic service on call since terminating his contract with his last slave, but he chooses to do these things himself because he likes the personal touch and is very fussy about his space.

Slaves come with a government issue wardrobe of simple clothing--loose pants, shorts, tank tops, shirts, and sweatshirts all the same drab shade of beige with appropriate logos, as well as a pair of leather wrist bands that denote their status, so he only has to pay a fee for the wardrobe and not purchase it himself. It's a shame; it's so hideously simple. From time to time he's dared to let his slave wear select items from his private collection when they're home, but not all slaves want that, so Kurt will wait to see what kind of slave Blaine is.

All of this is routine and a bit of a chore, but the closer it gets to the delivery the more Kurt perks up about it--he has to, for this slave's sake, because he's sure that the guy is worried about his new placement and he deserves whatever enjoyment he can get out of it.

Kurt wonders if Blaine is impressed at all by the fact that he's being assigned to one of New York's most notable up-and-coming fashion designers or if Blaine doesn't care for the industry at all. He wonders if Blaine is worried that Kurt is going to be a terrible master or an indifferent one or an overly affectionate one.

Kurt's last two slaves had had no interest in his lifestyle or his work, only in doing their jobs and enjoying whatever personal time they had. There are clubs dedicated to slave socialization, places where masters can bring them where they can interact freely with other slaves of their rank, and Kurt had always been free with taking his slaves whenever he had the time, with encouraging them to talk and play. But it's just as likely that Blaine is one of those slaves that prefers the boundaries of home.

In the end, Kurt thinks that he is probably just as nervous as Blaine; he spends the morning of the delivery making sure that everything is perfect, down to his own hair and clothes, and when the buzzer goes off he practically jumps up to answer it.

 

*

 

The same woman who had done his assignment is there at the door, with Blaine kneeling at her feet--not unusual but not expected, either--so Kurt doesn't get a good look at him until they're inside, the woman trailing off toward the living room with Blaine crawling in her wake.

Kurt sits, vibrating with nerves, and looks directly at Blaine for the first time.

He's—stunning, to say the least. Dark curls tamed into a loose style, clear hazel eyes, olive-toned skin. A compact body topped with an extraordinarily beautiful face, eyes so wide and wet that Kurt falls right into them. His face is soft with curiosity but still consummately submissive--he averts his gaze to Kurt's shoulder as soon as they look at each other--and Kurt finds himself at a loss for words. His pulse is racing and his cheeks tight with heat and his fingers flexing on his knees. He's agitated and drawn in and dear god, get it together, Hummel.

The woman's voice washes over him, a droning hum. He signs the release papers with graceless motions, not even really registering the details even as he shakes her hand and responds to everything she says.

Where before there had been mild curiosity there is now a raging desire to be alone with this slave, to talk about the nature of what this is going to be and figure out what they can expect from one another. It's Kurt's experience that the tone of the master-slave relationship can be set sometimes in the first few hours, so he's keen to get it right.

Alone, finally, he locks the door behind them and goes back into the living room.

Blaine is sitting back on his knees. His brown leather wristbands are neatly lined side by side, his hands on his thighs, his back straight, his posture perfect, his eyes downcast.

Kurt shivers. His first slave had been just as fond of submissive body language, but not his second--it's been a while, and he can't deny that he has always been weak to such displays. There is just something about a young man so perfectly arranged--

He clears his throat. He knows that they won't talk as much as he always expects them to; it's not a slave's job to provide conversation, and the brief conversations that they have in the beginning to establish boundaries and expectations will most likely be the longest conversations that they ever have.

"Blaine? Eyes up, please."

Blaine looks up, and Kurt's heart leaps in his chest. God, he is beautiful.

"I'll be brief; I'm sure you're tired from the ride down." He smiles, staring into those gorgeous eyes. "You've read my bio, so it's not much of a surprise when I say that I'll be at work most of the time. All I expect is to come home to a clean house and a healthy meal, so let me show you where everything is."

He leads Blaine through the apartment, first showing him the kitchen. He has a list of dietary preferences and requirements already prepared and pinned to the refrigerator. Blaine is familiar with domestic work, so he knows how to handle the credit card that will allow him to do the shopping, and knows how to cook to a certain level of finesse; Kurt doesn't have to explain these things, he just shows him the card and the list of vendors which Kurt prefers to do business with.

He shows Blaine the things he should stay away from when he cleans, shows Blaine how to arrange things like toiletries and delicate items, and tells him that unless specifically asked he is never to go near Kurt's laundry (early on Kurt had tried to teach his slaves to handle his clothes and learned that he simply couldn't cope with giving that task over to someone else).

All the while, Blaine follows on his hands and knees, seeming perfectly content to do so. At the end of the tour and instruction, Kurt tilts his head down at Blaine.

"Do you prefer to be on your hands and knees all of the time? In private, I have no preference, if you are more comfortable standing."

Blaine blinks at him.

"You may speak," Kurt says, pulse picking up again. He likes giving commands; it's just in his nature. He likes careful slaves who require him to be specific. It can only mean good things.

"Yes, master," Blaine says. And oh, that voice. Sweet and airy and measured. Kurt's face goes hot. "I like both," he adds, seeing that he's made no sense with his reply. "For now I'd prefer to stay like this, master."

Kurt wets his trembling lips with a quick dart of his tongue. He's embarrassed and trying to hide it, because--he's having a response to Blaine that he shouldn't be having, at least not this intensely, and most certainly not according to the boundaries that he's previously set for himself.

Determined to act normally, he shows Blaine his rooms and belongings. He gives a complete tour of the apartment, just so that Blaine is aware of where everything is.

After every domestic detail is covered, Kurt asks Blaine to serve them lunch. The food is already prepared; Blaine simply has to arrange it and serve it and he does so with exquisite grace. Once the task is done, he kneels at Kurt's side with his plate in hand.

"Please, sit at the table," Kurt says. Submission is all well and good, but he has no intention of making Blaine eat on the floor like an animal.

Blaine sits in a chair, looking vaguely confused.

"We won't often take meals together, if at all," Kurt says, "but when we do I don't need you to eat on the floor or wait until I'm done, unless I have company, of course."

They eat quietly. Kurt's thoughts are anything but--his face still feels as if it's on fire, and his body is a jangling mess of misfiring nerves. He's never felt this way about a slave before, never felt the anticipatory flicker of--something, dancing in the air between them, and he's sure that every time he looks away Blaine looks at him and vice versa. It's unsettling.

"We should discuss sexual service," he says, finally, when the plates are cold with food residue and there is no way to avoid the topic any longer. He's never found it difficult before, but he does now.

"Yes, master," Blaine says, softly, and Kurt wonders at how he manages to make that sound different every time he says it. This time it comes out breathless, almost--wanting.

"I--as I said, I won't be home much, and I don't expect you to be constantly available for that chore," Kurt says, trying to sound bored. "If I do it'll be early in the morning or late at night, and--manual stimulation is the most I'll require."

Blaine's cheeks go pink. Kurt knows that his own visibly piqued state is much more progressed, but he is in charge here, so he just sits up straighter and folds his napkin over his hands.

"Do you have an objection to that?" he asks, fingers shaking. "You may object; in fact, I insist on it if you do. Your unwillingness would be extremely offensive to me." He tries to sound firm, but really his belly is a quaking mess and he isn't using the words that he wants to use at all.

Blaine is staring directly into his eyes, his face now bright red. "No, master. No objections."

Kurt exhales, feeling as out of control as he has ever felt.

 

*

 

Getting used to having a slave in the house again is easier than he might have expected. Then again, he supposes that it's not difficult to fall into relying on someone else to do the dirty work after having enjoyed the indulgence before. The apartment is spotless once again, the food delicious, and he doesn't have to lift a finger outside of laundry (tending to his clothes has always been more of a relaxing chore than a tedious one, so even that isn't work in his eyes).

He spends the majority of his time at home working. It's easier to ignore his woefully shrunken social life when he throws himself into work and, besides that, he's always been determined to be the best at what he does, and he designs best at home.

When he's done all that he can or tapped out beyond sensible limits he retires to a bath and a skin care routine that never fails to relax him. Many people have their slaves attend them to a ridiculous degree in the bath, but all Kurt asks of Blaine is that he have Kurt's bottles and soaps laid out along the edge of the tub and a fresh set of towels and a robe waiting.

Early on he'd given Blaine access to his magazine collection as a gesture of good faith--he's fairly sure that Blaine is interested in fashion and pop culture, as he's found Blaine gazing at the television many a night with wide eyes. He'd bought a small television for Blaine's room that week--his previous slaves had never asked for one, but he figures that it can't hurt.

Still, Blaine is—quiet.

Come to think of it, Kurt hasn't heard anything but "yes, master" and "no, master" for weeks, even though Blaine's stares can often be interpreted as sentences at times; they are that expressive.

Without fail Kurt comes home every evening to find Blaine on his knees on the kneeling pad beside the kitchen, waiting to take Kurt's outerwear and shoes, then following him into the dining room for his meal, then disappearing to make sure that Kurt's office and bathroom are in order before retiring to whatever it is he chooses to do in his spare time.

He's an excellent slave.

But Kurt wonders if he's maybe--too perfect. Surely this arrangement is already boring for him. Kurt's previous slaves were talkative and even cheeky, making him laugh and always testing his patience in playful ways. They had not been conditioned to the point of perfect behavior, though they were delightful all the same.

Perhaps Blaine doesn't think that Kurt wants much from him. Perhaps he thinks that Kurt wants him out of sight, or isn't pleased by him in some other way. Kurt hasn't had the chance to tell him what a good job he's been doing. Nor has he exercised his sexual rights.

At the end of the day, a little sweaty and with a full belly, that last thought makes Kurt's neck heat up and his cock feel heavy in his pants. It's been a long time since he's even bothered to masturbate; he isn't surprised that the feeling is compiling now, with a beautiful boy available for his pleasure, especially after the week that he's had.

But it feels--different, with Blaine. Just looking at Blaine is enough to get his blood pumping faster in his veins. He's never felt that for his slaves before, but he supposes that this is all the more reason to do it and get used to doing it. He has to get over this feeling.

"Blaine?" he calls, loudly enough to be heard throughout the first floor of the apartment.

Blaine walks briskly into the room--wanting to get there quickly, Kurt guesses, and even the way he walks is handsome, compact and graceful, all muscle, all brown skin--and then drops to his knees at Kurt's side, smiling in a way that's almost unconscious, as if he can't help it.

"Yes, master?"

Kurt's cock throbs simply from having watched Blaine cross the room. He inhales to steady himself, and puts a hand gently on Blaine's arm. He strokes the hair there, sits back farther into his arm chair and lets his knees spread apart, Blaine between them in a most tantalizing manner.

Blaine's pupils flare wide open. He sits up on his hands and knees, nostrils quivering and lips parting.

"Would you...?" Kurt begins, and before he can even finish, Blaine's throat expands with a desperate, huffy inhale.

"Yes, please, master," he murmurs.

Oh.

Kurt watches him, shocked into silence as he puts one hand on either of Kurt's thighs and stares hungrily at what is rapidly filling the front of Kurt's dress slacks.

This is certainly a first.

Kurt cards a hand through Blaine's hair. He can't resist; it's something that he's been wanting to do for weeks, and Blaine is so physically receptive at the moment. His eyes shutter closed at the touch and he turns his face into Kurt's hand, pressing his cheek to Kurt's palm. He's shaking.

Kurt strokes his hair to the scalp in repetitive circles, growing harder and harder at the feel of Blaine's warm, hard body between his knees.

"T-touch me," he says, and it isn't much of a request considering that Blaine's fingers are already sweeping up and down the inside of his thighs, as if they can't help themselves.

Blaine's fingers tremble as they undo his pants, as they peel his underwear down, as they take the still half-soft flop of his cock past the flaps of material. Blaine's chest hitches. His eyes go even wider, even wetter, if possible, his bottom lip curling inward with concentration as he closes his hand into a fist and begins pumping Kurt's erection.

Kurt closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. If he watches--if he keeps seeing the arousal on that beautiful face--he's not going to last, and oh, he wants the feeling of Blaine's strong hand around him to last.

It's perfect. Every downward stroke cinches the base of his shaft and teases his balls, and every upward stroke sends Blaine's long, thick thumb sweeping over the head of his cock, just right underneath the head.

It doesn't take long to get Kurt to the edge of orgasm. He'd intended to grab a tissue from the table beside them--he'd always caught the mess with a tissue before--but it's too late now. Blaine's fist is a dry, hot glide around him, and he's going to come all over those beautiful fingers, and fuck he wants to. He wants to feel Blaine's hand go wet with release. He wants it so badly.

He opens his eyes, his body jolting at the sight of Blaine craned forward between his thighs, half-draped over his lap, wrist and forearm muscles ticking with effort as his hand flies. Kurt's pink, hard cock fucks in and out of that fist, though he's hardly moving at all, and Blaine's pulse is pounding at his throat, and Kurt shoves one hand into those curls and hangs on. He can't help it.

"Just like that," he whispers, watching Blaine's fist move around him. "That's it." His belly heaves against the shirt still tight across it, and when he finally tenses and comes he spills one long stripe over it before fucking down lower in Blaine's hand, gushing over the clasp of his fingers instead of upward. He whimpers, hips off of the cushion beneath him, curling an arm around Blaine's neck and pulling him in close out of reflex.

"Oh," he breathes when it's over, slumping back into the chair, "oh, yes, that was--thank you, Blaine."

Blaine is still sitting there, face blazing hot, lips red from--god, had he been biting them at some point?

"May I clean, master?" he asks, and in a haze of post-orgasmic lassitude, Kurt assumes that he means he'd like to go wash his hands, so he nods--and then freezes when Blaine begins licking the come off of his fingers with delicate laps of his tongue.

Oh, god.

"You don't have to do that," Kurt says.

Blaine stares up at him, mid-lick, his chin smeared with pearly fluid. "Should I not have?"

"I don't see why you would want to," Kurt says.

"May I ask a question?"

"Of course."

Blaine sweeps his fingers--the clean ones--up and down Kurt's thigh. He takes a tissue from the box on the coffee table and cleans Kurt off before lightly tucking him back into his clothes. He dabs the streak of come off of Kurt's shirt and then sits back, cleaning his dirty hand last.

"Have you truly never had more than just--a hand and a tissue, from a slave before me?" There's something terribly sweet about the way he asks, as if he means no offense and is simply curious.

"It seemed the least taxing choice," Kurt says, unsure of himself. He doesn't particularly like the feeling, but with Blaine it isn't--scary, the way it might be with someone else.

Blaine raises his eyes, puts his hands on Kurt's knees and sits up to stretch the muscles in his calves. He's nodding, though he still seems doubtful in some way, and Kurt would be more concerned with all of this if he could stop staring at the teeth marks across Blaine's lower lip.

"May I stand?" he asks. Kurt nods.

And holds his breath when the sight of Blaine tenting his loose pants settles into his frame of vision. Blaine's cock is stuck to the front of them, glued there by a wet spot that's dribbled halfway down the front seam.

Definitely a first.

He closes his gaping mouth and looks away, face red.

"Will there be anything else, master?" Blaine asks, trembling on his feet.

Kurt swallows thickly, shaking his head. "No, Blaine. Thank you. Good night."

 

*

 

After that, the tension is so thick that Kurt imagines he could cut it with a knife. He has never before been attracted to a slave, never been privy to the sharing of mutual passion with one. Proof of Blaine's physical interest in him had been--shocking, and new, and lord, Kurt needs a boyfriend. It's been too long. That's the only explanation.

As it is, having Blaine around rapidly becomes torturous. Kurt will glance over to see him bent over the countertop, reaching high to put away clean dishes. The width of his powerful shoulders, the dip of his back, the cinch of his small waist, and the curve of his high, round ass displayed so obscenely by the tight fit of his slave attire--the pants may be loose in other places but they hug the backside nicely—can make Kurt's mind go blank with desire.

Every few days or so Kurt will call Blaine to the couch or his bed or--even once--to the kitchen table to jerk him off, and each time Blaine arrives with a tissue, already prepared for what Kurt had expressed as a preference in mere passing. Each time Kurt feels as if it's his heart being pumped inside of that fist instead of his cock, and each time the result is less pleasurable. Each time Blaine limps away with his back perfectly straight, hard as a rock, and Kurt can only assume that he's taking care of himself quite well, because he never asks to be touched in return.

Kurt knows that it would be nothing to reach for Blaine's cock, by request or otherwise. He knows that many masters take whatever sexual pleasure they desire from their slaves; they suck them and fuck them and get fucked and sucked by them and it's not against any rule.

Kurt has never felt comfortable with the idea of taking anything more than what is necessary to satisfy the contract. But rather than paint himself as a paragon of morality, he also has to admit that it's more to do with the fact that he's simply never wanted to.

In lieu of exploring these sexual boundaries, Kurt invites Blaine to sit with him a couple of nights out of the week. He learns that Blaine can't actually read (hence the television preference), feels bad about the offer of his magazines, and offers to read aloud to Blaine from the vintage Vogues that he's been staring at for weeks.

Blaine's singing voice is as good as his paperwork claimed, as well, and so Kurt often asks him to sing to him while he floats in and out of power naps on the weekend.

Sometimes they'll watch television together, too, but Kurt prefers interaction, so reading and singing become the two activities that they share more than any other.

It's nice and, more importantly, sexless, so Kurt can just--let go, and be himself, without all of these new questions about attraction and what he's been missing out on.

 

*

 

Kurt gets asked out by his personal tailor not long after, and before he can even think about whether he truly wants to date Peter or not, he's said yes. They've been friends for years and flirting for almost as long; Peter is smart, successful, good looking, and not just looking for a fuck.

He needs this. He needs to have his desires for romance and sex satisfied in a healthy way, needs to put some distance between the sweet, wide-eyed young man who takes care of his every need at home and himself before he goes absolutely insane with the intensity of it.

Slaves are not meant to take the place of partners. Too many people fall prey to the false sense of domestic bliss that a perfect slave can provide, forgetting that it is just an arrangement, a necessity, a law.

Kurt needs to be reminded of this, and quickly.

They start off small; dinner and movie dates at home, mostly. Neither want to talk shop, so fashion and fashion social gossip are out of the question, and that makes it easier.

Blaine moves around them silently and effortlessly, serving them, cleaning up after them, and then disappearing without needing to be told to do so the moment that he isn't needed.

It goes very well in the beginning. Peter comes bearing flowers and wine, dressing impeccably and showing good manners. They have a lot in common. It's easy to joke and laugh and be kissed, and the weeks bleed into months, and Kurt doesn't need to ask Blaine for sex anymore.

All of this should make their situation easier, but somehow it fails to do so. Those evenings on the couch with Blaine singing along to the stereo or listening to Kurt read to him fade to once a week and then disappear entirely, because more often than not Kurt is on that couch with Peter, making out like a teenager and then later they're in bed, sharing very satisfactory orgasms.

The sex is good. The dates are great. But Kurt misses Blaine. And--he has a feeling that Blaine misses him, too. There have been several times when Peter has stayed the night and Kurt has gotten up to use the bathroom and found Blaine asleep on his knees on the carpet just outside of Kurt's bedroom door, eyes swollen up from being open too long.

"Blaine?" he'd asked, one time. "You don't have to wait outside when Peter is here; I can take care of anything that he might need. Go to sleep."

It's happened more than just a few times. Each time Blaine nods and crawls down the hall to his room, and something inside of Kurt just twinges. He feels--bad, and he's not sure why, but he thinks that maybe they've been spending too much time at Kurt's and not enough at Peter's. He redistributes their dates more evenly between the two apartments, but his absence seems to agitate Blaine even further.

The moment that he comes home Blaine is on him at the door, staring up at him from his knees with those huge eyes, asking him what he can do, bringing him things, cooking his favorite meals and desserts, and Kurt thinks that he could probably see his reflection in the tile floors in the kitchen, they are that clean.

He takes Blaine to the slave center, encourages him to make friends and enjoy himself, but Blaine doesn't seem to want to really get close with anyone--he's friendly, yes, and even joins the tennis team there, blossoms under the physical activity in a way that makes Kurt grin and blush, but the moment that his time is up he's all too eager to go home with Kurt, hugging his side and not letting go until they're safely home and alone.

Kurt has read about this, about slaves who are simply content to live a life taking care of others, who cling to their masters not because they need to or feel required to, but because it comes naturally to them. Kurt doesn't know if he believes that or not, but he does believe that Blaine is happiest when they are together.

What's troublesome is that Kurt likes Blaine best when he's just--being Blaine. When he's playing around with the piano or giggling at something on the television or dancing to a beat inside of his head across the kitchen while he stirs mixing bowls and chops ingredients for meals. He likes watching Blaine play doubles down at the slave center, watching his body move and his intense focus. He likes watching Blaine smooth his clothes down in the morning, even though it's the same outfit every day, making sure that it's wrinkle-free and looks good over the curve of his butt. He likes it when they need to talk to clarify something, eats up the content of these brief conversations like a man starving for food because they so rarely happen.

He likes Blaine, and he doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

 

*

 

He and Peter get drunk one night and end up banging around Kurt's place unplanned. They'd meant to go out after the bar but are both far too gone for that now, and before Kurt can realize just how careless they're being he's stumbled over Blaine kneeling by the door and Peter's tongue is in his mouth and he's being dragged by a fingertip hooked behind his belt buckle into the bedroom.

He chokes out, "We're fine, you can--bed, Blaine, sorry, thanks," as he's slammed against his bedroom door. Peter drops to his knees right there and starts undoing his pants, sucking him down, and before long they're stumbling toward the bed and Peter is begging loudly to be fucked.

It's intense, and fast, and the first time that Kurt has lost control of himself at home with Peter and god, he really hopes that Blaine had gone to bed. He doesn't even possess the sobriety to be embarrassed as he puts on a condom and slicks his cock and fucks Peter over the footboard of his four-poster bed.

It's been a long time since he's let go like this, and it feels so good. Peter is tight as a drum around him, he's got a fistful of pulled out strands of hair twined around his fingers, the man's sweaty shoulders under his hands, and he's giving it quite literally everything he's got, months of frustration bleeding from his body into Peter's with every thrust.

In the morning Peter purrs into his neck, "God, you were an animal last night," and Kurt can't help but feel a swell of intense pride.

It carries him as far as the bathroom, because once he's halfway down the hall he can hear a soft whimpering coming from Blaine's room. Concern overrides propriety and he inches his way down the hall, stopping just outside of the half-open door.

Blaine is on his knees, not on his bed but in a mess of blankets on the floor, his beige pants around his thighs. He's crying softly into the folds of the blankets, rocking a little, and he's--he's hard, so hard that it looks painful, and there's a line of pre-come connecting the tip of his swollen erection to the blankets. His ass is turned up and--and spread wide, and his hole is twitching, winking open and closed and--oh, god.

Kurt turns and quickly walks back down the hall, guilt washing over him in waves.

He shouldn't've looked in like that, he--shouldn't've done that.

He ushers Peter out faster than he'd intended, not even wanting to offer breakfast because Blaine will definitely show up to serve them, and that--no, not now. Peter looks a little miffed to be herded into the elevator with just a kiss and a smile, but he goes.

Kurt sits at the kitchen table for a while, trying to make no noise—he really needs a moment to think about what he's going to say. Eventually, though, the breakfast hour comes around and Blaine walks into the kitchen looking composed, only dropping to his knees once Kurt's request for fruit and granola and yogurt has been filled.

Kurt doesn't ask him to sit at the table. He reaches down, presses a slice of melon to Blaine's lips and Blaine, surprised but eager, takes the sweet fruit into his mouth and licks Kurt's fingertips clean in the process.

"Thank you, master," he says, resting his cheek on Kurt's knee and allowing himself to be fed half of Kurt's breakfast without complaint.

But the tension is horrible again, and Kurt finds himself saying, "We need to talk, Blaine. After my shower. Go wait for me in the living room, okay?"

Blaine nods and crawls off.

Kurt takes his time. He feels badly, still, and he isn't even sure why. He just knows that they need to talk--that they've haven't really talked since he started seeing Peter, and that it's mostly his fault for not starting that conversation.

He dresses in sweats and a t-shirt, wanting to be relaxed. Blaine is kneeling beside his armchair, fingers clasped in his lap.

"Hey," Kurt says, after sitting. "I think we need to talk about Peter."

Blaine blushes, but nods.

"Does Peter make you uncomfortable? Does--my relationship with Peter make you uncomfortable? I won't be upset if it does, but I need to know, so that we can figure out a solution together, alright?"

Even as the words leave his lips, he knows he's missing the mark--he knows that there's something wrong, something off, and it isn't just Blaine and it isn't just him and it isn't just Peter.

Blaine's eyes fill with tears, but all he does is swallow and look away. "Last night was--difficult."

"We were loud," Kurt says, trying to navigate without crossing a line. "That made you uncomfortable."

"He satisfies you," Blaine says, sounded so very broken. "But you didn't—even before him, we never--" He bites his lips shut, looking down again.

"Blaine," Kurt says. "I need you to tell me about the sexual service that you gave your previous masters. Please."

The question centers him, and he swallows and nods and begins, voice trembling only slightly now, "My first was six months after I was put into the program. She was--much older than me, but she was kind. We had normal relations, though I had--I had to take--pills to do so. Once she realized I truly was--gay--she let my contract expire. My second was a young man. He--used me in all ways possible, and was a bit rough but never beyond acceptable limits. He kept me for a year. My last was an older gentlemen, far too old to perform in such a way, but he--there were times when he asked me to touch myself in front of him, but he never put his hands on me. He kept me for four years. He would have kept me longer, but--he passed."

"You were close with him," Kurt says.

Blaine nods. "He was a good man."

Kurt isn't sure why this talk is making him feel so emotional, but it is. He puts a hand in Blaine's hair and tugs Blaine's head into his lap. "I'm missing something. I know I am."

"You've never used your slaves for pleasure without limit," Blaine says, finally, burying his cheek in Kurt's lap. "Masters don't hold back. They take what they want." He lifts his eyes but leaves his face there, nuzzling slow circles against Kurt's thigh. "They use slaves' mouths, they use slaves' holes, they--enjoy everything." He's breathing faster, cheeks flushing, body squirming, kneeling up higher between Kurt's legs. "You hardly touch me. You've never--never used my body." The flush goes red over his ear tips and nose.

Kurt bites back a whimper. "Blaine--even if I don't--surely you take care of yourself in private?"

"I haven't come since the last time my former master asked me to come for him," Blaine confesses, a whine lurking behind the desperation, and he buries his face between Kurt's legs. "I can't. I can't, not unless you tell me to. I can't." He's shaking, now, mouthing hot and eager over Kurt's bulge. "Oh, please. Please. Please let me do something for you. Let me taste you, let me--just tell me to--to come, and I will, I just want to come for you--"

Kurt pants, squirms back into the chair because he is quite simply overwhelmed. It's too much, to know that Blaine has suffered and gone without for months just because he'd assumed--oh, god, he--

He stands before he can stop himself, the knee jerk reaction a result of wanting space, and Blaine falls easily to his knees and turns to follow, even before Kurt realizes that he's taken a few steps.

"I don't--I can't imagine why you'd feel any desire for me. You're--you have no choice but to be here, why would--"

He's babbling. He's nervous. He can't stop wondering if this constitutes cheating on Peter, even though he knows that people use their slaves for sex and carry on relationships at the same time almost universally.

Blaine on his knees, eyes full of tears, hard in his pants.

It's so much, why is it so much? Kurt can't breathe.

When Blaine doesn't answer, he breaks, feels the need for recaptured control ricochet through his limbs like the crack of a whip, and he exhales, "Hook your wristbands."

Blaine reaches down and connects the little metal clasps between his leather wristbands. It's a rudimentary cuffing system, rarely used, mostly ornamental, and Kurt isn't sure where he's going with this—those bonds won't hold up to any real strain—he just needs Blaine contained, and he needs it now.

He closes the distance between them, gently running his fingers through Blaine's hair. There are tears on Blaine's face; he thumbs the wetness from cheekbone to jawline, smearing it beneath the pads. Blaine's eyes flutter shut.

How could he have been so blind? Blaine wants this. Needs this. Has needed it since the moment that his eyes went wide when he saw Kurt standing on the threshold of his apartment. Whatever notions that Kurt has held about slaves have no bearing on this beautiful, strong creature on his knees, who knows exactly what he wants.

Something raw and almost violent rips down Kurt's spine in response.

He shakes with it, fingers tightening in Blaine's hair, and says, "I want your mouth. I don't want you to do anything but suck and lick; no bobbing, no hands, no words. Okay?"

Blaine nods, pupils blown.

Kurt quakes with the power of just doing it. Of tugging down his sweatpants and watching Blaine's eyes go wide with lust. Of feeding his stiffening prick into Blaine's mouth and feeling the warm, slick clamp as that gorgeous pair of lips closes around him.

Blaine's body goes limp with relief when Kurt's cock is buried to the root, the tip of it brushing his throat. His nostrils flicker, panicked, around the breath that's being sucked in through them because he can't breathe any other way. Kurt sits still, letting him get used to it.

"I don't care if you gag or choke," he whispers, rough and low and sure of it now, "but I want you to take it. I know you can take it.” Blaine sobs around his cock, shaking, and nods.

Kurt gets the angle right, fingers digging into the back of Blaine's neck, and begins slowly, carefully fucking his mouth, edging into his throat at the end of every thrust. He can feel Blaine gag. He can feel Blaine struggle to breathe through his nose. He can see clear snot drip from Blaine's nostrils to his lip and from there down onto Kurt's cock which is sliding smoothly in and out of his mouth. He watches drool drip out of the corners of Blaine's mouth, down his chin, and onto the carpet. He watches tears streak down that beautiful, wonderfully agonized face.

But he doesn't stop. It feels--incredible, Blaine's cheeks hollowed eagerly, hungrily, around him, Blaine's soft tongue dragging along the underside and lashing the head when it passes by. Kurt's toes curl into the carpet. Blaine's mouth is flooded with saliva that he can't swallow, and it's so wet.

He goes faster, coming up onto the balls of his feet with every thrust. Blaine begins to moan around the flesh stuffing his mouth, and Kurt can hear the jangle of his wristbands as his fingers flail for nothing.

"Can you come just from my cock in your throat? Just rubbing against your pants?" he asks, breathing raggedly.

Blaine nods frantically, clamping his lips tighter together. His mouth is swollen and red from the friction, and god, Kurt doesn't think that he's ever seen a mouth more suited to being wrapped around a cock than Blaine's.

"What if I want to touch you?" he asks, fucking Blaine's mouth steadily, chest heaving. "What if I want to make you come?

Blaine sobs. His body convulses.

"Breathe through your nose," Kurt hisses, sliding into Blaine's throat, groaning at the spastic gagging clench as he blocks the airway. "Oh, fuck, yes, so good." He fucks Blaine's throat for maybe fifteen seconds before pulling out and feeling the muscles flutter anxiously.

He's never had this, not this way, never indulged himself so completely in it. The power of it, the rush of it, the way that it makes Blaine react--it's too much. He pulls out completely, not physically close to orgasm but too emotionally overwhelmed to continue.

Blaine gasps for air, sucking deep, ragged lungfuls in and out, his head bowing.

He steps back, stares with wide, enthralled eyes at Blaine bent over, cock tenting his pants, snot and spit covering him from upper lip to jaw, a few quivering strands catching the light as they dangle off of his chin.

He's perfect.

All Kurt wants to do in that moment is to take care of him, watch him fracture under the relief of pleasure and reward.

He gets a tissue and cleans the mess off of Blaine's face with slow, careful motions, and all the while Blaine stares up at him, glowing but bleary-eyed from the intensity of what they'd just done.

"Sit on the couch," Kurt says. "Take off your pants."

Simple commands. Rapidly executed.

Kurt holds his breath as Blaine sits back against the cushions, naked from the waist down; his cock is swollen and thick, flopping across his soft belly, above thick thighs and muscles calves.

Heat lashes down Kurt's body in waves; he wants. He wants to spread those legs and fuck up in between them. He wants to suck that gorgeous cock until it spurts in his mouth. He wants to jack it and watch it shoot over his fist. He wants to put his mouth everywhere

Instead, he kneels on the floor between Blaine's legs.

Blaine goes stiff. The position reversal isn't something that he's used to, obviously. Kurt puts one hand on either of his thighs. He's shaking, and he still isn't breathing right, and Kurt thinks about how long he has waited.

"I want to swallow your come," Kurt says. "Would you like that?"

"M-master," Blaine whimpers. "Yes."

He doesn't speak beyond the request. He just bends low and takes Blaine's cock into his mouth, hollows his cheeks and steadies the base and sucks it, fast and hard and unforgiving, and all told it takes about ninety seconds before Blaine is sobbing and shooting long, lush spurts of come down his throat.

It's the moments after that he draws out. He swallows completely, dabs the residue off of his lips, then off of Blaine's skin and softening cock. He feels overwhelmed, so he puts his cheek on Blaine's knee and closes his eyes until the feeling lessens. When he opens them again he finds Blaine staring down at him, lips parted and chest rising and falling evenly, peacefully.

He wonders how long Blaine has felt unwanted. Undesirable.

"You're beautiful," he says, unable to hold back any longer. "I wanted this the moment I saw you. I just--had no idea that you wanted it, too."

"I didn't know how to--be, without taking care of you," Blaine answers.

"It won't be that way again," Kurt says, stroking his chest and belly. "I promise."

 

*

 

"Did something happen with your slave?" Peter asks one evening over dinner.

Kurt is immediately on the defensive, though he's subtle about it. “What makes you ask?”

"Not sure. He's just been underfoot quite a bit lately. He—stares at us. It's different than how he was when I first started coming over. You don't think he's being a bit overly protective maybe?"

Kurt's salad fork stalls halfway to his mouth. He supposes that Blaine has been physically present a little more since they started--indulging, but Kurt honestly hadn't thought about it until now.

"Perhaps he's got a crush," Peter jokes, a mocking lilt to his tone that Kurt doesn't care for.

After they part ways in front of the taxi cab, Kurt thinks about it all the way home.

If he's being honest with himself, he's been thinking about Blaine all night.

Blaine would have loved this salad dressing--he's so fond of citrus combined with sesame. Blaine would have ordered the chicken. Blaine would have known the words to the song playing in the background. Blaine would've managed to not get frosting on his nose if he'd ordered this cake.

Perhaps it isn't Blaine who's got a crush, Kurt thinks, as he fumbles with his keys at the door.

Which he promptly drops onto the carpet the moment the hall light illuminates the foyer, because Blaine is on his knees, naked, in the middle of the hallway, head bowed and hands behind his back, waiting.

All the breath in Kurt's lungs abandons him. He chokes on the exclamation that lodges in his throat and shrugs almost unconsciously out of his coat. He's struck with a keen sense of willing helplessness, like the relief of releasing one's grip and allowing gravity to suck one down into an inevitable fall. Deadly but tempting.

Blaine looks up slowly. He's hard, cock wet at the tip, and when he looks at Kurt a bead of pre-come wells, white and full, at the slit, and then drips down onto the carpet. He lets out a strangled, wanting breath, and his back straightens.

Good god, Kurt thinks.

The way that his torso bends when he sits up on his knees--his throat collarbone nipples ribs belly flushed cock, all magnets for Kurt's gaze as that beautiful length bobs in mid-air above--

He feels his mouth go wet with spit and arousal zing through his extremities. His belly swoops and his ears ring and he wants.

Blaine stares up at him and then past him, almost as if he's dreading the possibility that Kurt might have brought Peter back for the evening.

Kurt drags the light scarf from around his neck, then toes off his socks and shoes. "How long have you been kneeling there for me?"

"Since you left, master," Blaine replies, eyes following the movement of Kurt's fingers.

Without stopping, Kurt begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"So good for me," he breathes, feeling heat soak his pores as he shrugs out of his shirt and drapes it neatly over the table beside the door. Blaine's gaze drops to his naked chest, to the dance of his fingertips over the buttons that make up the fly of his designer jeans. He pops them, one by one by one, thumbing the bulge of his cock as they slide from his hips.

Blaine's lips part.

Kurt hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, dragging them inch by inch off of his pelvis, revealing himself by slow degrees solely for the pleasure of listening to Blaine's breathing accelerate.

He doesn't think that he's ever felt sexier or more powerful in his life than he does when Blaine looks at him as if he is the most desirable creature in the world. He doesn't believe it, but when Blaine does that, he thinks that maybe he could be, maybe just for Blaine, maybe just inside of this little world they've begun building up around themselves.

Blaine slowly lowers himself to the rug, cheek to the floor and shoulders touching a moment later, ass in the air, his hands crossed neatly at the small of his back.

Kurt exhales. The slope of his body, bent over like that with the light from the kitchen spilling over him sideways, is painfully beautiful; the curve of his back and shoulder blades and spine, the shadowy, lubricant-smeared hollow between his spread cheeks, the furled knots of his fingers on either hand, his ribs expanding slowly, slowly, at his sides.

He's calm. He's not even desperate. He's just--flawless. Ready. Spread out like an offering.

Kurt steps close, close enough for Blaine to press kisses to the tops of his feet. "Please," he whimpers, nuzzling Kurt's ankle bones.

"God, sweetheart," Kurt says, the endearment slipping out unchecked--his chest is just so full, and he can't help it; he wants this, wants Blaine sweet and pliant and needy on his knees more than he's wanted anything in a very long time, more than he's ever wanted Peter. Who is he kidding? He hasn't given a single thought to Peter since he let Blaine past his sexual boundaries.

Fuck.

He grabs a condom from the strip that lives in the table beside the door, drops to the carpet and drapes himself along Blaine's back with a needy groan. The press of warm skin to warm skin is a shock, makes his body tingle and his cock stiffen, and Blaine bends under him, shoulders back ass neck hair, all sweat-touched and flushed, all Kurt's.

He kisses the back of Blaine's neck. "Stretched for me?" He knows. He just wants to hear it.

"Yes, master," Blaine gasps, and the title isn't a title, it's a pet name or a declaration of something as of yet unspeakable and it makes the hair on the back of Kurt's arms stand up.

"Put your hands down. I want to feel you move," Kurt says, running his open hands down Blaine's sides and hips.

What he doesn't say is, I want you closer.

It shouldn't feel this way.

It shouldn't be the most intimate thing that Kurt has ever experienced, kneeling on the plush carpet and guiding his cock inside of Blaine's impossibly tight body, feeling him give way with a soft, desperate gasp. Blaine shouldn't go so still and easy, shouldn't hold Kurt's arm around his waist with biting fingers, shouldn't beg under his breath for more, and harder, and please, and move. It shouldn't thrill Kurt to do so, to give him what he wants and needs, holding his waist and his shoulder and making him take most of his weight as he begins fucking him, the lubricant he'd applied earlier hardly enough to make it easy. Kurt doesn't think that Blaine wants it easy.

He listens to the wet catch of Blaine's rim and rings taking him in, squeezing him, holding him inside as he pulls out. He listens to Blaine's cock smack his belly in time with Kurt's thrusts.

Blaine begins to whimper, and then cry out, and Kurt reaches under his sweaty pelvis, finds him hard and pulsing and fists him and he comes without warning, crumpling to his elbows on the carpet as he spills. Kurt can't resist the throbbing of Blaine's body from the inside and he comes inside of the condom with a groan, biting down on the back of Blaine's neck.

They collapse into heap of limbs, Kurt curling himself around Blaine's body.

What to say when you've just had the best sex of your life with a veritable stranger, a stranger who you technically own for the next four months?

"I'm sorry," Blaine whimpers, thrashing onto his back. "I--you didn't--you didn't tell me to, and I did, I--" He sounds as shocked as he does remorseful.

"Never worry about that with me. If I want you to hold back, I'll tell you," Kurt rasps, still chasing his breath. "But--you did say that you--couldn't...?"

Blaine blinks owlishly at the ceiling. "I never have been able to, without a command, I--" He tenses, looking away.

Kurt has a very good idea of why that habit seems to have been broken.

He shivers, unwilling to let the sweaty warmth of Blaine's body go, despite the intimacy between them which has gone far beyond their comfort zones.

He only wishes that all this were as simple as merely deciding to hold on tight.

 

*

 

Blaine comes back from his monthly check-in with a band-aid on his arm and a smile on his lips. They eat lunch together without speaking and only when Blaine is putting the dishes away does Kurt ask.

"All clean and confirmed?"

Blaine chuckles, nodding. "I even got the lollipop to prove it."

Kurt has work he might do, but it's Sunday and Blaine keeps shooting him shy smiles, and there's a television show that they've been meaning to catch up on. He has no plans otherwise.

He crosses the kitchen to grab a couple of cans of diet soda, skirts Blaine--finding the fact that he's standing just a little strange, as they are mostly eye to eye that way--with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, then motions to the living room.

"Want to watch something?" he asks, holding out a can.

Blaine's knees twitch--he almost goes down on them, then stops, fussing with the dish rag in his hands and ducking his face. "Yes, um. That would be nice."

After that, every time that Kurt asks Blaine to do something with him, it gets a little easier. There's less "master" (though Kurt honestly doesn't mind the title, because the way that Blaine says it makes him blush) and more complete sentences, which makes him comfortable because his previous slaves were fairly talkative.

They watch television and read magazines and Kurt shows Blaine some of the things he's working on, loving the way that Blaine's face lights up.

"Bow ties?"

"They're all the rage right now," Kurt answers.

"I love them," Blaine says.

The next day, Kurt gives Blaine a box full of bow ties that had never made it past the developmental stage when Kurt had completed his original designs.

Blaine squeaks and hugs him and immediately rushes off to put one on. It looks ridiculous with the beige-toned slave clothes, so Kurt starts gifting Blaine with things that match--polos and button-ups and cardigans, and then pants to go with those. He takes pride in the way he looks, and so much enjoyment out of the patterns and colors that Kurt picks for him.

Blaine is such a dapper, perfect gentleman, and the fact that he can transition from that into a sweet, begging submissive as easily as breathing--

Kurt had never thought that he could have both of these things at the same time, with the same person. Finding that he can changes everything.

 

*

 

"Hey, come join me?" Kurt asks, and Blaine freezes on his hands and knees at the bathroom door, sits back on his calves and tilts his head. "It's perfect, and I know you love the lavender bath oil."

He should have thought about the offer before he made it, but the warmth is making him lazy and as Blaine had turned to go something had cinched up tight in his chest, a desire to stop Blaine from leaving the room that he suspects has something to do with the long hours this week that have kept them apart.

Blaine kneels up beside the tub, stripping his pajama top off, then lifts each knee in turn to take off the bottoms along with his underwear.

Their bodies are no longer a secret to each other--body modesty in general goes out the window when one regularly takes pleasure from a domestic slave, often a new one every six months--but there is nothing simple about the way it feels when Blaine's very male body settles between his thighs and back against his chest in the water.

Kurt closes his eyes and leans his head back against the towel set there to cushion his neck, and feels Blaine's hair tickle his breastbone as he does the same.

The water cools from a bit too hot to just perfect, and Kurt finds himself idly kneading Blaine's shoulders. It's almost unconscious, the gesture, and he doesn't think much of it until Blaine lets out a little staggered groan and shifts, making water slosh over the edge of the tub.

"Hurt you?" Kurt mutters, sleepy.

"N-no," Blaine says, arching his neck.

So he keeps doing it, digging his fingers into knot after knot of corded up muscle, until Blaine is breathing heavily and hissing through his clenched teeth. Kurt shifts his hips, letting the floating shaft of his cock slip along the small of Blaine's back. There's almost no friction because of the water and oil, so there's nothing really sexual about the movement.

"I should be doing this for you," Blaine says, a hint of amusement flavoring his statement.

Kurt hums, rolling his damp cheeks side to side across Blaine's shoulders, kissing the birthmark on the right side before licking over it with his tongue. "Mm, but what if my pleasure is your pleasure?" He feels Blaine shudder in response. "These are the big questions."

Blaine laughs, and it makes the cloudy water tremble around them. "I won't argue with you there."

He searches along Blaine's chest, finds a nipple and begins working it between his fingers. He kisses higher on Blaine's neck, near the back of his hairline.

"Want you in my hand, sweetheart. Is that alright?"

Blaine's plump lips part and for a moment nothing comes out, but then he groans, "Yes--yes, please."

There is little in this world that gets Kurt harder faster than the feeling of a man's cock going hard in his hand--but that doesn't seem to matter much here and now. His dick throbs as it fills, but he just lets it rest against Blaine's spine and ignores it in favor of using the bath water to ease the passage of his fist up and down Blaine's cock. It's perfect; shorter but thicker than his own, curved to the right at the tip and god, Blaine is just so responsive. He's whimpering and rutting up through Kurt's fist the moment that he's fully hard, slippery silky soft over the steel of his erection, and Kurt just wants to drown in the way it feels.

He pants against the back of Blaine's head, nose and lips buried in his curls, shaking and feeling as if he's being jerked off right alongside Blaine even though he knows he's not. He can feel the arousal make Blaine's body quake, can feel the build up of tension as if it were his own.

"M-m--"

Kurt squeezes harder, pulls faster, cutting Blaine off mid-moan, and from a place that he hadn't even knew existed inside of him comes the raspy command, "Say my name."

Silence. The water sloshes with the movement of Kurt's hand. Blaine's frantic breathing echoes off of the walls. Soft, broken into two syllables, his whimper, "Ku-rt?"

"Say it," Kurt moans, shifting his fist up high to work the head and glans hard against the firmest part of his palm. "Say my name, Blaine."

"Kurt," Blaine gasps, coming, throbbing in Kurt's fist. Kurt can't feel the rushes as the water takes them but he doesn't need to. He's mouthing the top knob of Blaine's spine, quivering like a leaf in the rapidly cooling bath water. "God--god--"

Kurt smiles. The rush of blood through his veins, the pounding in his skull, the pleasure seeping from Blaine's body into his own, it all bubbles and then reduces like fine wine into a syrupy glaze, thick and sweet and sharp and so perfect.

"Beautiful," he says into Blaine's curls. He doesn't realize that he's slid an arm around Blaine's shoulders until Blaine's mouth presses a line of soft kisses along his forearm.

"Let me take care of you?" he asks, voice rough. Kurt's pause is a question. He adds, "Let me--take you to bed." He presses his face into the crook of Kurt's elbow, breathing him in. "Want you inside of me."

Kurt inhales. "God, yes."

 

*

 

Peter breaks up with him on a date which he'd intended to end by breaking up with Peter, which should make him laugh at himself silently but just sort of ends up depressing him. Especially when Peter's reason for doing so is "I don't think we want the same things, Kurt, I'm so sorry".

He had thought they had. He had thought it might become something.

Once upon a time, at any rate.

That night he asks Blaine to fix him a mug of warm milk and he sits alone in the living room with his iPod buds in his ears listening to predictable break-up songs and crying like a teenager.

Even covered in snot and nursing a post-crying jog headache all he wants to do is burrow into Blaine's arms and stay there but he doesn't, because it would be too much, too soon, and he's--Blaine and him--it's not easy. It's never going to be easy.

And the most important part: he has no idea how Blaine feels. He thinks he does. A part of him that had flared to life the moment their eyes had met knows. But he can't assume. He just--can't.

Because they aren't supposed to. Slaves and regular people are like two different species, not meant to feel anything for each other beyond the prescribed social interactions. It's what allows their world to work. It's what takes care of the starving, overpopulated masses while raising up the wealthy at the same time.

It's awful. It's awful, but Kurt has never cared before. And now he can't seem to stop.

He thinks about Blaine's skills--piano playing and singing and the way he takes care of others so perfectly. His optimism and his ability to see the very best in everyone. His ease with life and how he can just find happiness no matter where they are or what they're doing. The sweet, wanting curve of his body and how he embraces his urges as the most natural things in the world, no hesitation or censor. He likes eighties music and colorful clothing and eats with a knife and fork no matter if the food is meant to be picked up with his hands. He's as beautiful as a sunset on a crisp autumn day and his smile regularly turns Kurt's knees to jelly.

Hell, he's inspired the majority of Kurt's current line--

God. He's infiltrated every aspect of Kurt's life, and the results have been--amazing.

How could it possibly be mutual, though? How could--Kurt can only do so much, can only be in Blaine's life so much, their situation makes it impossible for them to be equals, so how could Blaine--how could Blaine feel the same way?

Kurt is his prison. Kurt is the definition of what limits him, not the thing that enhances him. And Kurt can't free him. Can't buy him, that's not something that exists, the permanent purchase of domestic slaves. It had been disallowed early on to prevent too much control being given over to the masters. All Kurt could ever do is renew Blaine's contract every six months for the rest of their lives, and at the five year mark there's an extensive investigation to make sure that the slave isn't being mistreated or misused--and what if they figured it out, what if it came out that they were not actually master and slave but something more, what would happen--

His mind is going in circles and he hasn't even solved the original riddle of what Blaine wants and feels, and he's sitting here plotting their lives; how deeply has he been drawn into this role that he's still forgetting that Blaine is a person with desires completely distinct from his own?

He feels sick.

 

*

 

The bedroom door stays open, which is a change.

One morning after breakfast, as Kurt is giving his hair a last minute spray of product before he walks out the door, Blaine, kneeling in the hall watching him asks, "Did--may I ask you a personal question, master?"

Kurt winces. He used to love that title coming from Blaine's lips. Now it just--stings.

"Of course."

"Are you and Mr. Cuozzo not seeing each other anymore? I just--I noticed that he hasn't been to see you, and if he isn't going to be coming back, I'll stop buying the groceries he requested, and I won't make the mustard chicken anymore because I know you only ate it because he--he liked it." Blaine looks nervous. He adds, "There are shows that he programmed to record on the television that I know you don't care for, as well."

Kurt feels a flush crawl up the back of his neck. He wants nothing more in this moment than to open his mouth and spew everything.

Peter is never coming back, at least not as my boyfriend. I wish you were standing at my side right now giving me a kiss goodbye before I left for work. I am in love with you and I realize now that I've never been in love before. You've changed everything. Even the clothes on my skin feel different. I want you to keep changing me. My eyes have never been so open.

"We separated," is all he says. "You can--go ahead and do that."

Blaine's cheeks go pink. He inhales twice, very quickly, and then a smile tugs the corners of his lips up. "Yes, master."

The open bedroom door torments Kurt.

Every night he thinks that Blaine might come to him, maybe under the guise of checking on him to see if he wants something before bed, but he never does.

He doesn't want to call for Blaine. He wants Blaine to--to come to him out of desire, not need, not because he has to, even though he knows that his desire is unfair because Blaine has been conditioned to never act on his own desires so openly.

Kurt often falls asleep rock hard, grinding into the mattress, because the anticipation comes even though he knows there's no relief in sight. He'd rather ignore a thousand erections than summon Blaine to him like a lap dog that one calls for warmth and comfort on a cool night.

 

*

 

Weeks later, it's the toilet in Kurt's bathroom backing up in the middle of the night that brings them together. Kurt had been asleep when the gurgle of running water had woken him—mostly because it made him have to pee--and he'd stepped on wet carpet and groaned in frustration when he'd realized the cause.

He's never been any good with plumbing, so he calls for Blaine. Neither of them are very good with plumbing, as it turns out, but Blaine seems to know how to make the water stop gushing, at least, and then helps Kurt dry out the carpet as best as he can before telling Kurt that he'll call an actual plumber in the morning and make sure that it gets taken care of.

They end up laughing idiotically over the patch of wet carpet, giddy from lack of sleep and feeling foolish. Between the pair of them they ought to know how to fix a damned toilet.

"Oh, god," Kurt sighs. "Would you believe me if I told you this is the first time this has happened?"

"The first time you had no idea how to fix a toilet? No," Blaine says, then freezes--that's sort of pushing it in terms of cheek.

But all Kurt does is giggle harder and fall back onto his ass. "I am transparent. I am not a fixer of toilets."

Blaine fusses with the hem on his pajama pants' leg, still looking embarrassed to have teased that roughly. "You make up for it by being pretty amazing at everything else."

Why is this always so much easier in the middle of the night? Everything feels unreal, disconnected from the waking world, fuzzy around the edges and just right for saying things that you aren't quite sure how to say during the day. Still, even with that, Kurt doesn't have the words. So he stands, holding out his hands to help Blaine up, then drops them politely and backs up toward the bed, sitting on the edge of the side he usually sleeps on.

Blaine looks like he's caught between wanting to go to his knees and saying something, but all he does is rock forward on the balls of his feet.

How do you say please come to bed with me, but only if you want to as a man and not as my property?

How do you destroy a social construct with a gesture, or a sentence, in any situation? How do you gain the confidence that allows you to believe that you can? Or even should?

There are no answers.

There is, however, Blaine's honey-hazel eyes shimmering like glass in the dim bedroom light. There is the longing on his face, barely concealed, calling out to the longing on Kurt's, a silent scream trying to bridge the distance between them as they do nothing. Kurt is very tired of doing nothing. He hasn't overcome hellish adversity and succeeded in building an amazing, fulfilling life for himself to do nothing. Not here, not now, not ever again.

"Do you--" His voice fails him. He sits up straighter, tries again, "Do you want to be with me tonight?"

Blaine's eyes flutter shut and then slowly open again. "God, yes."

No master. No qualifier. Just desire. Just yes.

Still, it isn't until Blaine is plucking his pajama top open that Kurt realizes there is no turning back from this. There's no shutting the door in the face of the way this intimacy--Kurt and Blaine, not master and slave--makes them feel. He buries his face in Blaine's chest, lightly framing those trim hips with his hands as Blaine pushes the cotton off of his naked shoulders. He tugs Blaine's top off, presses kisses into the dip between his ribs.

"Blaine," he breathes, rubbing his face back and forth over the soft skin under his mouth. "Blaine, please, I--"

Blaine guides him up onto the bed horizontally, catching the waistband of his bottoms as he inches up. In short order Kurt is naked and sprawled on his back, Blaine kneeling over his right leg, staring down at him as if he is something new and not the man that Blaine has been living with for months.

"You're the most beautiful man that I've ever seen," he says, eyes wide and wet.

"No," Kurt hisses, as Blaine's lips begin exploring his chest. "n-no--"

"Yes," Blaine says in between kisses, in between licking Kurt's nipples to rigid pink points. "Yes." He scrapes his fingernails down Kurt's ribs, leaving tracks in their wake, dragging his mouth along the sweet hollows below Kurt's ribs, across his belly, his navel, and licking the line of hair that runs from there to his pelvis. "Yes."

He's hard. He's so hard, straining up toward Blaine's mouth in an openly desperate way that he's never let himself give over to before. Something in him is cracking under Blaine's insistence, under the surety of Blaine's declarations, and all of his protests and delays become meaningless when Blaine kisses past his cock and starts tasting every inch of his thighs and balls.

He sinks a hand into Blaine's hair, gasping. "Blaine."

Blaine licks a stripe up the underside of Kurt's swelling cock, dragging wet all the way to the tip, which he sucks in between his lips and then lets go after one wet, shivering moment. "Yes, Kurt?" He's smiling, and Kurt whimpers, hips twitching.

"God, you have no idea what it does to me when you say my name."

"I--think I do, actually," Blaine replies, mouth curling impishly as he lowers his head and begins licking and suckling at the crown of Kurt's cock.

He can't take it anymore. He sits up, wraps his arms around Blaine and pushes him back onto the bed, climbing on top of him and pressing him down into the mattress. Blaine stares up at him, his chest frozen mid-lift.

Kurt stares at his lips, then into his eyes. "No rules. Not tonight. Okay?"

"I don't know if I can do that, at least not--all the way, but--"

Kurt drags the pad of his thumb across Blaine's lips. They part, wet and pink and lush, and Kurt shivers from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

"I have wanted to kiss you," he says, "since the moment you looked up at me."

Blaine moans, taking Kurt's thumb between his lips. "Please," he begs, letting it pop free with a breathy, wet noise.

Kurt presses their mouths together with a groan.

The kiss is like sparks over his cheeks and chin, trembling waves of sensation jolting through his body. It's the falling sensation you shudder awake from on the cusp of sleep. It's years of half-hearted relationships and attractions blown to dust. It's the way that Blaine's body gives under his, stretching and arching as if being pressed together simply isn't close enough.

They kiss until Kurt can't feel his lips, just the friction burn of stubble around the edges of his mouth. They kiss until Kurt is clawing Blaine's pajama bottoms off because there's so much heat between them that he's already sweating. When they part to breathe, Blaine just latches onto his neck and keeps going, kissing and kissing and kissing, one hand on Kurt's spine and the other on his ass. Kurt isn't sure when that happened, but he has no complaints. Blaine's fingers trace the fuzz of hair there, finding the sweaty crevasse and then Kurt's dry, clenching hole.

It's been so long since Kurt has let anyone that far past his boundaries that it's almost--unimaginable, how good it feels, the pressure light enough to tease but not light enough to be ignored. He groans into Blaine's hair, straddling Blaine's thighs.

"I want you to fuck me," he gasps, kissing Blaine. "I want you to fuck me."

"Oh, god," Blaine whines. "I--I'm your slave. I--I can't--I've--never."

Kurt rocks on top of him, rubbing their cocks together, and gasps when Blaine's fingers catch on his rim. He needs more than this. He needs to feel discomfort, he needs to feel open; there's nothing submissive about the sensation. He just needs it. Needs to feel Blaine tomorrow, long after they're done.

"Please," he says, kissing Blaine with hard, unforgiving nips of his teeth. "Try? If you don't like it, we can stop. I just--I need--" He shudders, Blaine's fingernails digging into his buttocks. "I need you." He cups Blaine's face, kisses him softer, trying to calm down. "I need you, sweetheart."

Blaine doesn't answer, not with words. He just gently spreads Kurt's cheeks and begins stroking back and forth over his hole as they kiss and rock together.

Kurt fumbles in the bedside drawer for condoms and lubricant, biting his lip when he says, "Let me."

He rips the packet, pinches the tip, and rolls the latex down over Blaine's thick cock. He gives it a squeeze--it's going to be inside of him and oh, god, yes, is all he can think. It's been years since he's felt relaxed enough in the bedroom to let a man fuck him—and he is so far beyond mere relaxation with Blaine that it scares the shit out of him. But Blaine makes him feel brave, and this is no exception.

"How--how should we...?" Blaine squirms, sitting up against the headboard with his legs folded loosely in front of him. Kurt stares, unable to even think straight as he lowers himself onto Blaine's lap, sliding his legs around Blaine's waist.

"Like this," he says, putting one hand on the headboard and the other around the back of Blaine's neck. "Just like this. Want to be close. Want to feel it. Want to show you how to fuck me."

Blaine groans, pinching Kurt's waist under his fingers as Kurt reaches behind them to guide the shaft of his cock up. He squirts a cool dribble of lubricant down between his cheeks and over Blaine's cock, shivering--the sensation is so tactile, so immediate, and so connected to the act that's to follow that he can't help but visibly react.

Their bodies are so twined. It's nothing to rise up and sit down, his milk-white, strong pelvis executing barely perceptible circles as he lets his weight push Blaine past the resistance and inside of him. Blaine whimpers, head rolling back against the wooden slats of the headboard as Kurt impales himself slowly.

When he's seated he hisses in a breath, putting both hands on the headboard, lifting and falling, just to test the feeling. It burns, but that's what he wants. It's--incredible, Blaine opening him up, Blaine's girth more than he's ever had before, stretching him to the limit.

"God," he moans, the bed squeaking as he rocks back and forth. "Oh god--"

Blaine is shaking but otherwise trying to remain still, his sweaty knees lifting to bracket Kurt's torso. "Kurt. Oh, god, Kurt."

When he can move, it becomes impossible to not get swept up in it; the thickness, the burn, the sensations that flutter up his spine and down his calves from being that full.

And it's Blaine; he's never wanted someone close more than he wants Blaine close, and before he can even instruct or do anything smart, he's got two fistfuls of Blaine's curls and is riding his lap with graceless, desperate jerks.

He knows just how to get Blaine where he wants him, knows just where his prostate is, and before long he's rubbing it against the shaft of Blaine's cock, sparks flaring and dying beneath and behind his balls like light bulbs snapping the second before they go out.

He should be explaining this to Blaine, teaching him, but--

"Is this, am I," Blaine pants, holding onto Kurt's sweaty back.

"It's okay," Kurt chants, "it's okay, it's okay, just, fuck, fuck up, into me, oh, god, ohgod, Blaine, honey--"

Blaine does, digging his heels into the bed and rolling his perfect little body up into every one of Kurt's downward thrusts. Kurt relocates a hand yet again to the headboard, using the leverage to bounce. The more vertical, the more his prostate gets nudged, and the closer he gets to coming, though it's never as neat as that, and sometimes doesn't happen at all.

Blaine kisses him. Captures his lips desperately and holds on, locking an arm around his waist and cupping his jaw with the other.

"Want to feel you come," he says, breathing hot over Kurt's lips. "Just want to make you feel good, always, don't care how, I just--Kurt."

Kurt speeds up, desperately chasing the connection between all of the different sensations flaring through his body. If it could be perfect with anyone, it would be with Blaine.

"Touch me," Kurt whimpers.

And then Blaine's hand is around him, hard and wide and long and perfect, and that's what had been missing; Kurt sobs into Blaine's sweaty temple and dips low and angles back, spine bending, head tossed back, the swell of his ass touching the small of his back, grinding himself around the thickest part of the base of Blaine's cock, feeling his rim stretch.

It happens too fast for him to say anything, warm spurts of come drooling over Blaine's fingers. It's so intense that he doesn't even make a noise, just stops breathing for a solid ten seconds until he finishes spurting, and then he sucks in a breath so ragged that it hurts, and the next thing out of his mouth is a soft sob that takes the shape of Blaine's name but only barely. He can't feel anything but muscle burn and sweat and come and Blaine's heart pounding against his.

"Did you," Kurt moans, shifting, "did you, god, I'm sorry, I didn't even wait for you."

"I did," Blaine answers, collapsing as much as their position and the headboard allows. "God."

Untangling to get rid of the condom is about as graceful as it always is, which is to say that no level of comfort can make it so. Even that doesn't seem to matter with Blaine. Kurt turns down the blanket while Blaine gets rid of the condom and comes back with a wet cloth.

"The bathroom is still a pool," he says, gently wiping the come from both of their bodies, but stopping after that. It's all the patience that they have for being apart. Kurt tosses the cloth on the nightstand and tugs Blaine down onto the clean sheets.

"Don't care," Kurt says, tugging Blaine's back against his chest and nuzzling into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. "Don't go away again."

Blaine chuckles. "I see that 'no rules' doesn't mean 'no orders'."

Kurt pinches his hip. "Blaine Anderson, if you haven't realized by now that I give orders to everyone--"

"Especially cute boys?"

"You're asking for it."

"I am most definitely asking for it. Whatever you want it to be."

Kurt smiles. He can't seem to stop smiling. "I want to be yours."

Blaine goes still, and Kurt feels a hand clasp his. "You already are."

 

*

 

There are two boxes, each with a space for a check mark. The first option says "renewal" and the second "reassignment". Kurt doesn't think that he's ever filled out a form so quickly. They'll be assessed, of course, but the first renewal is almost expected unless there's a record of complaints filed by either the slave or master, so it'll be perfunctory at best.

Blaine, sitting across the table, grins and takes the pen, then the paper, tucking it into the pre-paid envelope. "If you hadn't put off filling out the last one, we might've never been assigned to each other, you know. But I don't see the point of hesitating this time."

Kurt laughs, eyebrows raised over his mug of tea. "Funny. Neither do I."

 

*

 

It's not as neat as he thought it might be. Blaine has trouble with the transition--when to wear his slave persona and when to set it aside. Kneeling and crawling and deferring are things that come to him naturally, not because he is less or because he is a slave but because he's a submissive; the identity is his own, strong and sure and well-established, but oftentimes it combines with the slave stereotype in ways that make Kurt uncomfortable.

The solution, he learns, is just to trust; he trusts that Blaine knows exactly what he wants and how he wants it, and he just—goes with it.

The slave clothes are retired, minus a set placed in easy reach for going out. Jeans and chinos and polos and bow ties take their place. Blaine starts styling his hair and choosing his colognes and paying more attention to things like trimming his nails and body hair for pleasure and not just hygiene.

Kurt doesn't mind the changes--he loves watching Blaine become more himself with every passing day.

Blaine still insists on doing all the housework and cooking. That role has been a part of him for so long that he doesn't want to consider setting it aside just yet, and it isn't as if he could get a job or go to school in place of continuing to do so. The alternative would be to mope around the house all day or do nothing but shop and go to the slave center, but the thought of too much leisure time makes him nervous.

Kurt has to admit--he sort of doesn't mind. He secretly loves that Blaine is content to play the role of--

He can't say househusband. But god, that's what it is.

He loves coming home from work to Blaine in the kitchen, setting the table or putting the finishing touches on his favorite meals. He loves coming up behind Blaine at the sink, holding his tiny waist and kissing the back of his neck until he can't hold a sponge and gives in, twisting in Kurt's embrace and looping his arms around Kurt's neck, letting himself be kissed and pressed into the counter until Kurt either has to stop so that they can eat before the food gets cold, or letting it do just that in favor of Kurt lifting him to sit on the edge of the sink, his legs going around Kurt's waist.

He loves coming out of the shower to find Blaine already in bed, neat pajamas in place but one hand stroking between his legs, cheeks already flushed with anticipation for those few hours when there is nothing but their bodies and breathless confessions of adoration and kisses. He loves when Blaine is shaking underneath him, kissing the hinge of his jaw and fumbling with the draw on his pajama bottoms, gasping, "Let me take care of you, let me--want you in my mouth," taking Kurt to the back of his throat with hungry whines, letting Kurt hold his hair and ride it out.

Which isn't to say it's all happy.

Kurt can't tell anyone about their relationship without risking Blaine being taken out of his care. This would be unbearable for him if he still had his dad around, but even avoiding the topic with Carole and several of his close friends from high school and college is difficult. Having no way to explain it at work means he has to identify as single, so he's constantly avoiding situations where someone might ask him out, or might expect him to ask them out.

He hates it. He doesn't understand how Blaine can be so accepting of their situation, but Blaine shrugs when he brings up the topic and smiles and says, "You have no idea how lucky I feel. This just doesn't happen for us. Ever. I--I found you. We can be together. That's all that matters to me."

Kurt tries to do whatever he can to take Blaine out of their little world--goes to museums and shows and on vacations and takes Blaine along, and even offers to visit Blaine's family so that he can reunite with them in some way. Blaine refuses with a blank shake of his head--going back is not something that slaves really think about, and Kurt learns later that Blaine has reasons of his own to not want to see his family again.

 

*

 

One Saturday there's a surprise inspection--something to do with a new government regulation going into effect--and Kurt has to scramble to communicate what's going on to Blaine with about three words before the assessor passes the living room threshold.

Blaine hastily finds his clothes and falls to his knees and he and Kurt don't make eye contact the entire time that the assessor strolls through the apartment and checks Blaine over briefly.

The bloom of a hickey on Blaine's collarbone should not matter, but Kurt feels as if somehow the assessor will figure out that it was placed there while Kurt had made love to his partner last night instead of by a master marking his property.

Of course, nothing happens as a result of the visit.

This doesn't stop Kurt from practically ripping the costume off of Blaine as soon as the door closes behind the assessor, whimpering and gasping and upset even as he pushes Blaine down onto the couch and fucks him until they both can't see straight.

"Mine," he growls into Blaine's sweat-slick skin, replacing his spent cock with his fingers and making Blaine dribble come for him until there is literally nothing left in him to give. "Mine, but not that way. Not the way they think. Never that way, do you understand, Blaine? Never that way. Never again."

"Yes," Blaine gasps, body fluttering warm and tight around Kurt's fingers. "Yours. Yours. Oh, god, yours--"

"I love you," Kurt growls, biting down on Blaine's hip, on his belly, on his nipples, on his collarbone, marking him over and over again. "I love you." He kisses Blaine's neck and jaw, then his lips, gripping his hair in one hand while still fucking him open with the other. "I love you."

"Kurt!"

Kurt rolls him onto his belly and pushes inside of him again, and when it's over Blaine's back is covered in scratches and teethmarks.

 

*

 

It's a Saturday and Kurt is watching Blaine play tennis. The woman who owns the female slave playing opposite Blaine chats with him, as she always does. They've been coming at the same time for months now--she's a lawyer, and always has really interesting stories to tell--and Kurt likes to think they're becoming friends.

When they run out of news to share, and after a prolonged silence during which Kurt watches Blaine and she watches her young female slave go back and forth, she says, "You look at him the way I look at her."

Kurt goes very still.

"Don't worry. You don't have to say anything. I just--thought you might appreciate a sympathetic ear."

"No one could be closer to a perfect understanding of the law than you are," Kurt says, trying to sound neutral.

"Very true," she says. He watches her eyes soften as they find the girl again.

"What's her name?" he asks.

"Florence," she answers.

"How long have you had her?"

"Three years."

He exhales. "Does it get easier?"

She tilts her head. "How long have you had him?"

"Nine months."

She smiles. "Not long. And no. No, it doesn't." Her mouth twists. "But for all that--it means more. Every month, every year. It means more. And that balances it out, I like to think."

Kurt's chest hurts, but he also feels as if a huge weight has been lifted off of it. "I tried to use that 'what we must fight for often means more to us in the end' argument with myself. Most of the time it doesn't quite do the job."

"I don't have a magical solution to offer you," she says. "But sometimes it's nice to know that you aren't alone. He's--a beautiful young man."

“Thank you; Florence is lovely, as well.” He takes a breath, and what comes out after is simply the very next thought in his head. "If I'm not alone, I can't be the only one who's tried to--escape."

She nods. Takes a sip of her coffee. "Relocation to remote areas where it's almost impossible to maintain a reliable--I should say incorruptible--assessor presence. Faked deaths. Swapped identities. False identities."

"Even if we make our peace with it, I'll always feel like I'm his cage. And that my privilege is meaningless because I can't share it with him. I don't care about feeling--special, I don't need to have that for my own gratification. I just want him to benefit from it. And he can't."

She smiles. "Would he agree with all of that?"

"No," Kurt answers, sighing.

"Give and take. That's all you can do."

He waits for her to say, time's are changing, be patient. But he knows they're not. He knows that he won't see a slavery-free world in his lifetime.

Blaine bounds off of the court, sweat making the gelled curls around his face stand up. He drops to his knees at Kurt's feet, arms flopping like cooked noodles, his cheek settling on Kurt's knee.

Opposite him, Florence does the same with her mistress. It's not deference; it's just exhaustion and comfortable joy.

Kurt puts a hand lightly on Blaine's neck, stares into those vibrant eyes, and for the life of him he can't imagine forcing the bulk of his guilt onto Blaine, can't imagine consistently providing a reminder that might dim the light in those eyes. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either.

So he takes the high road.

"Would you and Florence like to come to dinner at our place some time?" he asks, watching the happy surprise dawn on both Blaine's and Florence's faces when they realize what's happened.

She smiles at him, ducks her face and tugs Florence closer. "We'd love to, Mr. Hummel."


End file.
